


Macushla

by Hinn_Raven



Series: Macushla [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU - Comicverse, Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bonding, Damian's training, F/M, Gen, Implied Past Child Abuse, Non-Graphic Child Abuse, Non-Linear Narrative, Steph fixes things, Steph is Bros with Everyone, Steph is a BAMF, Talia al Ghul is a complicated parent, Teen Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:11:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephanie Brown is nine years old when her world falls to pieces. Whisked away from everything she's ever known, she finds herself in the court of Talia al Ghul, training to be an assassin. And when she ends up as Damian al Ghul's bodyguard, well her life just gets stranger from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Macushla

**Author's Note:**

  * For [happyrobins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyrobins/gifts).



> Inspired by one of Maggie's ridiculous headcanons. 
> 
> Basically she wanted a Steph as Damian's babysitter/bodyguard AU, but when we started talking about what it would be like and it compounded into this monstrosity. And then Dani started giving me advice about names and it just kept going.

* * *

Stephanie Brown is eighteen years old, blonde, annoyingly cheerful, and a master assassin.

... Yeah, most people don’t know about that last part.

She took a bite out of her chocolate-chip waffles, staring out over the San Francisco skyline that her (rather expensive) apartment gave her a great view of. She really liked ‘Frisco. Fun town. Even if it had been lacking in her favorite form of entertainment for the past few weeks. Not that she really blames Robin for that. If even  _half_  of what the newspaper say is going down in Gotham is true, the Teen Wonder has his hands more than full.

She wonders if Slade will tell her, if she asks nicely, if the rumors about Batman being dead are true.

She feels kinda sorry for the super-hero community if it is true. Losing Batman would be a huge blow.

She swirls her fork in maple syrup, feeling sorry for Robin. She’ll have to make an effort to cheer him up. Maybe she’ll make him a coupon book. Good for one team-up, a temporary reform, free information, that sort of thing.

She flips the morning paper over, scanning the headlines idly. She glances at her phone to make sure that NO MISSED CALLS is still displayed. It’s been far too long since Robin called her up for info.

Ugh, she really misses his blushes and stammering. She takes another bite of waffle.

She almost misses the picture; she’s so lost in her musings. But the headline, in thirty-six point font, is enough to catch her eye.

NEW BOY WONDER? The caption reads. Steph examines the picture, fully expecting it just to be the old Robin in a new costume.

Her heart enters her throat. It’s not  _her_  Robin. The boy wearing the Robin colors is younger, maybe ten, with a scowl and spiky hair and a hood on his costume.

She drops the paper and grabs her phone.

Two hours later, Stephanie Brown, master assassin, is on a flight to Gotham City.

* * *

Stephanie Brown is nine years old and  _scared_. Her black eye is throbbing, her shoulder aches, she needs to go to the bathroom, and she’s locked in her dark closet again.

As if all that wasn’t bad enough, there’s shouting outside, and for once it’s not her parents fighting. The voices belong to strangers, rough and clipped and accented and  _angry_. They’re talking with her father, accusing him of things that Steph can’t quite make out, but she has lived in Gotham long enough to know that when strange people break into her house, she ought to be scared.

She fumbles in the dark as quietly as she can for her flashlight, hoping that she doesn’t attract any attention. She  _hates_  the dark,  _hates_  the closet,  _hates_  not being able to see anything,  _hates_  her dad for locking her in here...

Steph’s list of things that she hates is cut off by her managing to locate the flashlight and the book she stashed with it under the pile of blankets. Her dad doesn’t know she has them; otherwise he would have taken them by now. It’s been three whole weeks, and he hasn’t found them yet. Steph is proud of this. She pulls them into her lap just as the shots go off.  _One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six._

She hears a strangled noise that’s vaguely like a scream, and a soft  _thump_  that sounds like an unconscious body hitting the ground, and somehow, she knows that her father is very very dead. She isn’t sure about her mom, who she hasn’t seen or heard from all day. It’s possible that she’s in the next room, past out in a drug-filled haze, but it’s equally possible that one of the six shots was spared for Crystal Brown.

She tightens the grip on the book she has in her lap. It’s  _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ ; it’s thick and heavy and has an impressive edge. It will do.

Someone says something in a language that she doesn’t understand and then the door to her closet is wrenched open by a bulky man in a ski mask with a gun.

Steph flashes her light right in his face to stun him, hits him in the crotch with Harry Potter, then dashes past him, making a break for the door. The goon’s two compatriots shout and try to grab her.

Emphasis on  _try_.

She stomps on their feet, elbows their soft spots, bites, kicks, uses both the flashlight and the book as bludgeons, scratches with fingernails and screams until her throat is hoarse and their ears are ringing.

In the end, despite her best efforts, they’re covered in bruises, thin red lines, and papercuts, Steph is bound hand and foot with duct tape over her mouth to shut her up, and they’re all in a mysterious black van, driving very quickly away from home, Gotham, and Arthur Brown’s bullet-ridden body.

* * *

She wakes up looking up at a very pretty woman.

The woman tells her to call her Lady al Ghul and that Steph will be working for her here.

The “or else” is left unsaid.

“Here” is a walled compound somewhere (it’s not in the US, Steph’s sure of that, but of nothing else). It’s divided into several parts: servant quarters, general areas, training courts, and Talia’s private sector, which only the most trusted servants and bodyguards can enter.

Steph is given a small room in the servants’ quarters that she shares with a girl named Natalia who doesn’t speak English. Natalia escorts her to the kitchen, where she meets a large, imposing woman who only seems to go by Cook. Cook gives Steph one look, and then hands her a spoon and tells her to stir the porridge (it looks a lot like oatmeal to Steph, but she doesn’t say anything.)

Life in the compound is strange. Steph is taught how to cook, clean, and fight to Talia al Ghul’s ridiculously high standards. She learns to use knives on vegetables, fruits, meat, target dummies, and sparring partners. She learns how to hide in plain sight, to conceal her emotions, and how to make people underestimate her. She learns how to lie so well that she can sometimes even fool Cook (never Talia though.) She learns to break intruder’s fingers, smiling at them as she does so and asking them questions about their intentions in a cheerful voice. She learns how to read and write in six languages. She learns about poisons and antidotes and how to use them.

She grows up like this, with knives under her pillows and poison spikes in her hair, with lessons and chores and faint whispers in her mind that she does not belong here in the compound, guarding and serving Talia al Ghul, her small court of killers, and yes, her son.

“The son of Batman” one of the other servants tells her one cold night in the servant’s dining room. Her name is something that starts with a P--Penelope, perhaps, or Petunia--and she’s been here a week. Her face has been splashed with acid, removing her usefulness as an undercover agent. She wasn’t good enough to warrant bodyguard, so now she’s stuck here, cleaning weapons and cooking, like Steph. Most of the servants and guards--with the exception of the ones closest to Talia--are like Pollyanna, or Pandora or whatever. Steph is an anomaly, and not just because of her age.

Steph doesn’t particularly believe that the boy is Batman’s son. She hasn’t seen the boy up close, only observed a training session or two, but he seems very al Ghul-ish to her. Her memories of Gotham and Batman are faded and dull, far away from the realities of Talia’s court, but she’s pretty sure Batman doesn’t stab his trainer in the chest with a katana because she said something wrong.

* * *

Stephanie Brown is eleven and she’s just had her first kill. She feels sick, looking at him. He was an intruder, about to kill her, but the sight of her knife in his throat still makes her feel awful.

Somehow, she knows that she’s now lost control of everything. Whatever semblance of a possibility of an escape is gone now.

Talia al Ghul smiles at her and wraps a purple silk scarf around her shoulders.

“It will be alright, Amoret,” Talia’s voice is soft and kind and  _lying_.

Amoret becomes the name Steph goes by in the field. Amoret the child killer. The smiling knife. She goes on missions, killing and stealing and spying, and still managing to keep  _herself_.

Amoret is a legend.

* * *

Stephanie Brown is seventeen and ecstatic. Robin is back with the Titans and while she’s not  _attached_ or anything, making him blush is far too amusing for the Boy Wonder’s own good.

“Oh  _Robin_ ,” she sings, dangling from a tree branch. She’s dressed in one of her favorite uniforms, skintight eggplant colored spandex with a black belt and a mask that hides her eyes, nose and freckles. All Robin’s got for his facial recognition programs is her mouth and short blonde hair.

“Corsair,” Robin sighs. Aww, he missed her then. “They told me you were gone.”

She laughs, letting herself drop from the tree right into his personal space. She reaches out and runs a gloved hand along his arm. He skitters back, away from her, already blushing. She laughs. “Just got bored. Went to Madrid for a while. Great beaches. Better museums.” He glares at her from behind his mask, and really he’s just too precious. Steph wants to pinch his cheeks. She does. Hey, villain.

He blushes again. She smirks. “So... doing anything later?” She asks, her tone flirtatious.

“Maybe,” he said, crossing his arms, ears still a lovely shade of crimson.

“Would it involve foiling my villainous schemes by any chance?” She asks, smirking.

“Only if you intend to have one.”

“I was presuming that was why it was only a maybe,” she said sweetly. Her phone goes off. She sighs. She needs to feed her cat. She blows him a kiss and then disappears into the twilight, leaving the tracker he’s placed on her in a rose bush.

* * *

Stephanie Brown is thirteen years old and she has no idea what to do.

Eight, maybe more, of the guards have rebelled, and are attempting to take control of the compound. Afya is dead. Natalia is dead. Husam, Katherine, Beka, Padme as well.

Steph is  _furious_ , anger roaring through her veins. Talia had taken these guards in, giving them home and work when no one else would. And they were betraying her by slaughtering her servants and looting.

“Where’s the brat?” Luke, a tall blonde man with brands on his hands, face, feet, and chest. The one on his face is a simple X, going from just below his eye to his chin, crossing his lip slightly. The mark has long since healed, but it’s distinctive and a little disturbing.

His blade is against Nuri’s throat. Nuri is terrified; it’s obvious from her shaking hands and wide eyes. She’s only been in the court for a week, but her job is to teach Damian al Ghul French, Prussian and Portuguese. She’s considered high ranking and important. Steph, lying between the corpses of Padme and Afya, pretending to be dead as well, feels her breath catch. They’re after Damian.

“He’s over there, in the closet, don’t kill me please,” Nuri is babbling. Talia’s hiring standards must have gone down, Steph thinks in disgust. 

Luke’s blade makes a silver arc through the air and Nuri’s head falls to the ground

Martina, a Hispanic woman with three missing fingers on her left hand, wrenches open a closet door, revealing a determined looking Damian Wayne.

Steph forgets everything. She forgets that there are eight of them and one of her and that they are armed with swords and all she has is a knife and her poisoned hair-spikes.

The kid is scared and is going to fight and Talia has trained Steph to do many things, but not caring has never been a lesson that Steph has been particularly good at learning.

She stabs one of them—he’s the closest but she doesn’t know his name—in the hand.

She kicks, twists, stabs and flips until she lands in front of Damian al Ghul. Her lips slide back to reveal her pearly whites. “Don’t.  _Touch._ Him.” She growls.

The fight is brutal. At one point the five year old steals her other poison spike (she’s only fighting with one and her knife) and stabs Martina in the neck with it. Martina goes down screaming and twitching.

In the end, there are bodies, still spasming from the poison, and a bloody and bruised Steph, holding a pristine but upset Damian.

Talia al Ghul sweeps in not five minutes later, rage in her stance and murder in her eyes and bloodied sword. She looks at Steph, then at her son, then at the bodies of the rebellious guards.

“Amoret,” She says, “I believe I have been wasting both your talents and loyalty.”

* * *

Steph is twelve, and this is her first mission. Talia has dressed her. She is wearing a loose top and pants, both in black. They hide her knives and their sheaths very well. There’s a mask, white with gold edging around the eye holes, edge and the raised lips. There are small holes in the mask, by her nose for breathing, but none for her mouth and talking. Amoret is a silent killer, which kind of grates since Steph doesn’t like being quiet.

The purple shroud—the one Talia gave her that day, so long ago—is heavy on her shoulders. She wants to lick her lips, but the mask is fitted. To do so would make it fall off.

“Ready?” Afya asks. Afya is in her late twenties, and one of Talia’s best guards. No one knows her story, although rumors claim she was either a childhood friend of Talia’s or the midwife to deliver Talia’s son. Either way, Lady al Ghul lets Afya transport and guard Damian.

Steph nods. Her palms are sweaty.

Afya slips the window open, and gestures for Steph to move in.

Steph pulls out her knife.

* * *

Stephanie Brown is fourteen years old and Talia al Ghul has left her in charge of Damian, which is not unusual. The fact that she is currently in charge of him in the house of Ra’s al Ghul, on the other hand, is.

Talia al Ghul runs a court, but Ra’s al Ghul appears to run an entire  _world_. His compound—one of  _thirteen_ —is inside a mountain, and is  _filled_ with people. There are soldiers and servants and assassins and gardeners and teachers and  _courtiers_. And all of them (it seems to Steph) want to capture Damian.

These people— _all_  of whom seem to be combat trained badasses with a kill count in the triple digits—are part of a different world than Steph. In Talia’s court, the Lady Herself is tangible, present, feared. Roles are set and firm, and progression is done according to skill and jobs, not politics. Here, everyone is vying for power, and the “favor” (read: custody) of the heir to the al Ghul empire would be advantageous to say the least. No one would actually dare to kill Damian, the wrath of both Talia and Ra’s al Ghul would be nowhere  _near_  worth it, but Ra’s doesn’t mind about broken limbs and bruises, as long as Damian learns  _something_. Learning to tolerate pain counts, apparently.

Talia has made it very clear to Steph that no one is to teach Damian anything, except for his tutors, while Damian is in the house of Ra’s al Ghul.

It’s one in the morning on their ninth night in the lair of Damian’s grandfather and his army of power-hungry crazies. Steph is stretched out, asleep on a mat in front of the door. The door is barred and locked, the room is windowless, and  _all_   (yes  **all,**  Steph is  _very_ good) of the alternative entrances to the room have been sealed thoroughly through a combination of duct tape, steel wire, super-glue, concrete, the contents of thirteen chamber pots, and a dozen cattle prods (don’t ask).

There’s a large, luxurious bed in the middle of the room, where tufts of dark hair are barely visible beneath the huge down comforter.

The room is quiet. All is well.

The door slips open a centimeter.

Steph’s eyes fly open. A tiny little shruiken, sharpened and deadly, flies from her hand to the throat of the unfortunate would-be-kidnapper. There’s a gurgle of blood, and then Steph is on her feet, blades drawn.

As Amoret, she fights with a short sword and a knife. Swords, however, are hard to hide on her person while she sleeps. So she guards Damian by night with twin daggers, twisted and carved with ancient luck symbols.

She wears an armored shirt and leggings. Her golden hair, almost long enough to touch her waist, (Talia won’t let her cut it, telling her people will underestimate the smiling girl with long golden hair), is pulled into a bun, held in place by knobbed pins.

The attackers pour into the room over their comrade’s fallen form, carrying weapons and intents to kill Amoret, the defender of their target.

Steph  _flows_ , her knives extensions of herself as she draws red lines over their torsos, wrists, and throats. One manages to cut her arm, on her bicep, but Stephanie Brown is of Talia’s court, and the pain is nothing. She smiles at them as she dances, focusing on the rush of adrenaline and the way her feet move gracefully despite the blood that starts to spill onto the floor.

One—the leader, a tall woman with caramel skin, eyes that are cruel, and a single broadsword—slips past Steph’s darting blades. She lunges for the bed and her prize, seizing a hold of the inky black hairy and yanking it upwards.

Steph sinks her dagger into the woman’s back and slits her throat with the other knife for good measure. She’s breathing heavily and covered in blood. She carefully tucks the soccer ball and balloon dummy back into bed and starts moving the bodies.

“Ttt,” Damian’s head pokes out of the closet. “They were sloppy.”

Steph nods in agreement, although she knows she was sloppy as well—she needs to sleep  _badly_. “Third group tonight,” she says softly. “Should be the last too. Go to sleep  _macushla_.”

He vanishes back into the closet, where the floor has been hollowed out by Steph and made into a much safer bed.

She piles the bodies outside the door, knowing they’ll be gone by morning and no comment will be made by anyone. She washes herself in the water basin, and then goes back to sleep.

* * *

Damian Wayne is seven, and he thinks he can feel Baby kick. He tells Steph this, smiling.

Steph laughs and tells him she think she can too. “Baby likes to kick,” she says, voice wistful.

“He will be a mighty warrior,” Damian said confidently. He tries for the look Steph has been trying to teach him, ‘the puppy pout.’ “And he would make an excellent companion,” he tries again. Maybe  _this_  time, Steph will listen to him. Stephanie Brown is a worthy warrior, and her bloodline will be the same, Damian is sure of it. Damian is certain that he’d love having a boy his own age—or near enough, Baby will not be  _too_ much younger—in the compound. Mother has friends her own age, after all. And Steph’s son would be a good comrade-in-arms.

Steph looks amused. “And why are you so sure that Baby’s a boy?” She avoids the second question. Like she has the previous three times.

Damian’s face scrunches up. He tries to think. “He just…  _feels_  like a boy,” he says. He shrugs.

Steph laughs again, but Damian thinks it’s a sad laugh. It sounds normal, but her eyes are sad. Her eyes have been sad a lot lately. She gestures, and Damian moves forward. He curls up against her.

She runs her hands through his hair and hums a lullaby until he falls asleep. He dreams of playmates with blonde hair and Steph’s laugh, of Steph and his mother standing side by side, watching and smiling.

He wakes up in his own bed, with his stuffed robin tucked under his arms.

* * *

Tim Drake is sixteen years old, and his nemesis is throwing eggs at the Tower.

He  _must_  be hallucinating.

“I SEE YOU DRIVING ‘ROUND TOWN.”  _splat._  “WITH THE GIRL I LOVE”  _splat “_ AND I’M LIKE FORGET YOOOOOUUUU!”  _Splat._

“I GUESS THE CHANGE IN MY POCKET”  _Splat. “_ WASN’T ENOUGH, SO I’M LIKE FORGET YOU AND FOR-GET HER TOOOOO.”

“Someone tell me I’m hallucinating this,” Tim says, peering out the window. “Is Corsair  _really_ egging us?”

“Looks like it,” Kon says. “Oooh she’s wearing my favorite outfit.”

“You have a favorite?” Bart asks. “Which one, the short skirt?” There’s another splat, and the singing continues. Another voice joins Corsair’s, a deep bass that seems to prefer the more explicit version of the song. 

The Corsair is indeed wearing her short-skirt outfit. It’s purple, of course, with armored tights (yellow) and a high necked, short sleeved purple shirt. No less than five cartons of eggs are open at her feet, and she’s got her biggest smile one. She’s only wearing a domino mask today, not that it helps Tim’s search programs.

“YEAH I’M SORRY”  _splat splat_  “I CAN’T AFFORD A FERRARI”  _splattity splat_ “BUT THAT DON’T MEAN I CAN’T GET YOU THERE.”

“GUESS HE’S AN XBOX,”  _splat_ “AND I’M MORE ATARI”  _splat_  “ABOUT THE WAY YOU PLAY YOUR GAME AIN’T FAIR.”

Tim finally catches a glimpse of the Corsair’s partner in crime for this particular act of petty vandalism and public disturbance.

His eyes bug out of his head. He nearly falls over.

“Kon,” he says weakly. “ _Please_  tell me that I’m dreaming and that my nemesis is  _not_  egging the Tower with the help of the Red Hood.”

“Dude she’s not your nemesis, she’s the team’s nemesis. Don’t be greedy.”

“ _Kon!_ ”

“Depends. Does the Red Hood wear a red biker helmet and a leather jacket?”

Tim groans and pushes open the window. An egg lands right beside his ear. “Hey!”

“Hey Handsome!” Corsair yells. The Red Hood keeps singing.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tim shouts.

“Therapy for Hoodie here!” She calls cheerfully.

“You know nothing about psychiatric theory!”

“If I did, you wouldn’t know, would you?” The Red Hood let one fly, and Tim ducks. It flies in over his head and hits Cassie. Oops.

Wonder Girl is fuming. It got in her hair. Tim understands. He’s had egg in his hair before. It’s not a lot of fun. On the other hand, at least it’s not bubblegum. “You’ll pay for that, Eggplant!”

“Wasn’t me! It was Red!”

“What, did you two team up because you’re both members of team color noun?” Cassie crosses her arms, raw egg dripping from her hair.

“That, a mutual enjoyment of mayhem, a mutual acquaintance, and an unhealthy amount of boredom. Heads up!” Three more eggs are thrown at the window (is Tim hallucinating, or does the Corsair have a  _gun_  for eggs now?). Cassie pulls back and slams the window shut.

“Kon?” Tim asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can you ask her to go away? She likes you.”

Kon laughs. “Sure, I’ll handle the hot blonde for you, Wonder Boy.” He pushes open the main door. “Hey Blondie—!”

There’s a loud noise, like metal buckets hitting a Kryptonian. The Boy of Steel is now covered in red pain from head to toe, and Tim can hear the distinct sounds of Corsair’s laughter, mixed with a deepened version of Jason’s laugh from when he was Robin.

Tim can’t help it. He laughs along.

* * *

Talia al Ghul’s age is unknown even to her. Perhaps her father knows, but it has been many years since he has kept track of the passage of time, so she doubts it.

She stands in her gardens, smiling. The compound that she dwells in, raising her son with the help of his many tutors and her army of servants and bodyguards, had been her home when she was a child. She had spent her days here with her mother, learning her lessons and playing. Father came by often, smiling. He would embrace her and kiss Mother and watch Talia’s lessons. When the lessons were done he would create more, teaching Talia the things her teachers couldn’t or didn’t, and telling her stories.

Those moments are among her most treasured memories. Her life had been a peaceful existence in those days.

The compound is beautiful, created to her mother’s aesthetic tastes and her father’s security concerns. The walls that surround it are concrete and barbed wire on the outside, but inside they are polished marble. The building (a manor in all but name) is red brick with climbing ivy. The doors are expensive wood, crawling with sensors buried in them. The floors are exquisite tile, plush carpets, fine woods or polished stone. The styles are varying and widespread, showing off all sides of Talia’s heritage and travels. Talia has gathered people from all cultures and races, and for each of them there is a piece of home in her compound. All can feel welcome here.

But Talia feels most welcome in her own garden. All the gardens are spectacular, but this one is her favorite.

It had been her mother’s favorite too.

Melisande had adored plants. It had been part of what drew Ra’s al Ghul to her, according to the stories he had told Talia when she sat on his lap in the garden, beneath the shade of a cherry blossom tree. Melisande was the best gardener he had ever met. She could create life anywhere. Beauty followed Melisande’s footsteps. Everything Talia’s mother touched flourished.

Talia smiles at the memory of her mother, and kneels to inspect her plants.

Talia’s private garden is in a large courtyard. There’s a large marble fountain in the center, with a stone flower sending water into the air, with red brick pathways reaching out from it in all directions. There are tall trees and soft green grass and neatly edged garden beds.

And everything in the garden beds is both beautiful and deadly. Just like Melisande and Talia. Talia smiles, carefully checking the berries of her belladonna. Here in her gardens, Talia creates her most destructive poisons. Concoctions of paranoia and blindness and endless pain and death, all here from the pretty flowers she grows. She gives them to favored agents, to use on her most hated enemies.

She spots Stephanie, one of those favored agents, in a nearby tree, watching Damian spar with his instructor. She pauses in her care for her plants and watches as well, pride in her heart.

Damian will never have to suffer as she has, she knows. He will never be forced to watch his mother be slain and then set on fire, her eyes still moving even though she had stopped screaming, beyond even retrieval by the Lazarus Pits. He will never wander the world with Ra’s al Ghul, forced to see the horrors of war and humanity until he can’t find it in himself to trust another human being can be  _good_.

Talia has trained him, prepared him, as she wished she had been. Her son will never be helpless. Her father speaks of worthiness, but Talia does not care about that. Damian will never know pain like hers or Bruce’s.

Damian is now eight, the age both she and her beloved were when their worlds fell apart. Damian will  _never_  undergo that. She swears this to herself.

Damian has his father to look to in search for goodness, just as Talia looked— _looks_  at Bruce. He will look at Stephanie, happy and smiling and  _kind_  despite her profession and her life and the horrors that she has witnessed.

Talia smiles.

Damian has finished sparring. She calls him over, gesturing to him as her father once did for her. He sits beside her. She kisses his cheek and she starts to tell him stories and teaching him about the secrets of her garden.

* * *

Stephanie Brown is thirteen, and she feels ridiculous.

She’s wearing a Robin costume, one that she made herself from scavenged pieces of cloth and stolen items from the armory. Green tights, a tunic in the Robin colors, combat boots, a belt around her waist and her  _thigh_ , a cape that has a hood because it’s the only one she can find, and a domino mask. She even has a little five year old Batman to complete the outfit.

She smiles despite herself. Damian is  _adorable_. The cape is too big, the cowl is slightly lopsided, and his deep growl is only present part of the time.

They run around the compound together. They leap across rooftops and perch in the trees. They raid the kitchen for sweets and fight imaginary enemies, running through drill sets.

Then they end up in Damian’s room. Steph reaches underneath his bed, where’s she’s hidden her secret weapon. She pulls out a dark cloak, wraps it around herself, and puts on the paper mask. She growls, her voice deeper than Damian’s Batman voice. “I am Two-Face, scourge of Gotham! You have fallen right into my trap, Batman!”

She lunges for Damian and starts tickling him.

He laughs and laughs and  _laughs_  and she starts to laugh too, and eventually they fall to the floor laughing even though the tickling has long stopped.

And when she goes on her next mission and finds a stuffed robin (the bird, not the hero) in a shop window, she buys it without thinking.

From then on, she always makes sure to bring Damian presents.

His smile makes it worth it.

* * *

Stephanie Brown is fourteen years old and on a mission.

Her partner is a stranger, not a member of Talia’s court. He’s a little older than her, with red hair and freckles and a pretty face. He has cheekbones sharper than Steph’s blades and a smile as bright as the Italian sunlight.

They bounce around Rome together, playing whatever roles they need to be. Sometimes they’re siblings, searching for their parents. Sometimes they’re cousins. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Once they’re even engaged.

The hunt that they’re on is exhilarating. Searching down members of a terrorist cell that had the misfortune to anger Ra’s al Ghul. Their targets are men and women who run prostitution rings and work in human trafficking and murder for  _fun_. Steph feels no guilt, no remorse, as she slits their throats.

Her partner calls himself Marcus. She tells him to call her Amoret. He laughs and calls her  _Bella_ , his accent, somehow Italian even though there’s clearly not a drop of Italian blood in him, making the word wonderful and her knees weak.

She dreams of him at night. He makes her heart rush and her cheeks flush and she’s read enough books to fancy herself in love with him.

And so when he kisses her after a kill, when she’s just finished cleaning her blades, she responds eagerly. It makes her warm inside and she’s excited.

She’s not sure what to do with her hands at first, but she’s seen a few of the servants doing this in the hallway, so she grabs his butt, because it’s a very cute butt. He laughs, surprised, and she flashes her smile at him.

They don’t go to bed together that night. He wants to, Steph realizes that, but Steph doesn’t know anything about sex. Cook explained most parts of growing up to Steph, but sex was not one of them.

She tells him this the next night, when they’re kissing again.

He looks surprised. “I could show you,  _Bella_ ,” he offers.

She likes him, thinks she loves him. He makes her warm and fuzzy inside and has been driving her dreams crazy. She says yes.

In hindsight, he’s almost as clueless as she is, unsure of himself but enthusiastic. They tangle together under sheets on warm Italian nights, and Steph enjoys herself immensely.

The Italy mission is a good one. It lacks guilt and loneliness, two trademarks of her assignments since Afya died. She misses Damian something awful, it’s true, but Marcus is good company and she’s learning more about herself, a rare opportunity.

They spend their days between missions wandering around Rome, eating good food, laughing and being teens. They go on picnics and look at famous buildings. They stare at the stars and wonder about the future.

Steph occasionally leaves Marcus behind, scattering fake ids and emergency supplies throughout the city. Steph has been in Talia’s court long enough to know that one should always have places like that. One never can tell when a mission will go wrong.

She stashes wigs and makeup and passports and cash in rented lockers and even manages to use some money to buy herself a small safe house. She furnishes it sparsely, but it’s still  _hers_.

She wonders if Marcus is doing the same when she leaves him alone. She doubts it.

So their two months in Italy dwindle away, in laughter and sightseeing and youthful infatuation which is really nothing like love, but neither of them realize it until much later.

When the last member of the terrorist cell is dead in the ground, they go their separate ways. They kiss each other one last time, whispering meaningless sweet words to each other about seeing the other again soon.

(They won’t meet again.)

Steph returns to the compound with presents for Damian and pictures. She submits herself to the normal screening process. She doesn’t see Talia, but knows she’ll be summoned soon enough.

She plays chess with Damian, telling him about Rome. She leaves Marcus out of the stories. Damian never likes her partners on missions.

Steph’s just put Damian in check (not mate, that’s to come in a few moves) when Talia bursts in. She’s practically trembling in fury. She grabs Steph’s arm and yanks her out of her chair, upending the chessboard. She marches Steph down the hallway, Damian trailing behind them, demanding answers. Talia does not provide them.

She practically shoves Steph into a room that she’s never been in before, stomps in, and closes the door on Damian’s face.

Talia is  _seething_. “What did Maxim  _do_  to you?” Steph instinctively takes a step away from angry Talia.

 _Maxim?_ Steph wonders. Then she remembers; Maxim was Marcus’s handle. She blinks. “Nothing! He didn’t do anything—”

Talia shoves a piece of paper under Steph’s nose. It’s the results from her blood tests that were taken as part of the screening process.

“Look at item three,” Talia snarls.

Steph looks.

Positive for pregnancy.

Oh.

…

_Oh._

**_Oh._ **

She says so out loud. Talia is furious. But now that Steph can look closer, she recognizes it. It’s the protective furious that Steph sees any time someone is stupid enough to try to hurt Damian.

Talia’s not mad at  _Steph_  (too much), she’s mad at  _Marcus_.

“You should  _know_  better,” Talia snaps. “Did not your lessons cover this?”

“Um… not exactly? Cook got distracted during that lesson.”

Talia looks like she’s going to murder someone.

She doesn’t.

She sits Steph down and begins to lay out her options.

Option one is an abortion. Option two is to have the baby, but to send it away.

Steph can’t keep it.

“Take your time,” Talia says. Her voice is kinder now. “I know the decision is not easy.”

Steph does not say what she thinks. Talia did not have to make this choice. Talia  _has_  her baby.

Steph goes and comforts Damian. She doesn’t tell him, even though he asks. Instead, she takes him to the kitchen to beg sweets out of Cook. Afterwards, she reads to him and then sings him songs in Italian that she learned on her trip. When he finally falls asleep, she cradles him in her arms and wonders what it would be like to hold her own baby.

She tucks Damian into bed and goes to her own quarters. She falls asleep on her mattress, curled around her stomach protectively.

She tells Talia the next day. She’ll give away the baby.

She doesn’t tell Talia how much she wants to raise it.

Damian is ecstatic to hear the news. He bounces up and down and demands to know the baby’s sex and what the name will be. Steph tells him she doesn’t want to know, and starts calling her child Baby for Damian’s sake.

Talia takes her off dangerous missions, and confines her to the compound. Steph does not mind. She looks after Damian and helps Cook with chores. Quietly, she sends a message to Marcus through a private network. She might not love him, but he deserves to know.

He never responds. Steph doubts he ever got it in the first place, but does not try again.

Steph turns fifteen. Baby becomes a bulge in her stomach, bloating her to ridiculous sizes. Her feet grown, of all things. Cook laughs at her whenever she complains, and cooks Steph whatever ridiculous food she gets cravings for. It’s nothing like the horror stories Steph’s heard just random cravings for pickles or fruits that she’s never been too fond of.

When Steph starts to waddle around the hallways, she seethes in anger. Add morning sickness, Baby’s tendency to do martial arts on top of her bladder, and Damian’s constant pestering about Baby, and Steph’s temper becomes short.

She finally tells Damian she’s not keeping Baby when she’s seven months along. It’s not fair, she knows it. But Damian’s reaction is awful, and she’s glad she avoided it for as long as she did.

He begs and pleads and whines and cries. He applies to his mother and throws full on temper tantrums even though he’s  _seven_.

Finally, after twenty-four straight hours of this, Steph tells him that she cannot raise Baby here in the compound.

“I was raised here!” Damian says, crossing his arms.

“Damian, no one can touch you. You’re the heir of Ra’s al Ghul,” she says, kneeling at his level despite the difficulty created by Baby. She wonders how much of this is behind Talia’s reasoning. “Baby is only  _my_  baby. He doesn’t have that sort of protection.”

“I could protect him!” Damian protests. “You and I! We could do it.”

“What makes you so sure Baby’s a boy?” She asks, steering him away from the questions that tear holes in her heart. Steph is sure that there is nothing more that she wants than to keep Baby. Steph doesn’t exactly have much of a life. She’s already practically raising Damian. Baby would not be that much different, she knows. Besides Damian, there is nothing for her in the compound. Nothing holding her here. If it were not for the fact that she could  _never_  leave Damian behind, she would run away to raise Baby on her own.

But she can’t. Baby will be better off away from her anyways. She tells herself this at nights, like a mantra.

She almost believes it too.

* * *

Conner Kent has about five different ages, and isn’t particularly fond of admitting any of them.

“He- _llo_  Boy of Steel!” The Eggplant Corsair, one of the Titans’ enemies, sing. Kon blinks. He knows, logically, that the Corsair leaves San Francisco. However, it is one thing to know it, and another entirely to see the girl in Metropolis.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. Most small timers like her avoid Metropolis and its residential Kyrptonians.

“Team-up with Supergirl,” the blonde responds. She’s dressed in her stealth outfit—tight fitting black spandex with thin stripes of eggplant and a purple full face mask.

“What?”

“We met a few months ago. I’ve been trying out the hero thing. On the side, you understand.”

“If you’re trying out the hero thing, why don’t you try it out with us?” He asks.

She grins. She has a very nice smile, Kon admits it. Just never in front of Tim. “What, and let Robin get his hopes up?”

“I knew it,” he sighs dramatically. “You only hang out with us for Rob.”

She laughs, and moves closer. “Nah, he’s just the most fun to fluster.”

“You mean he blushes the easiest.”

“Well  _duh_.” She looks at him appreciatively. “I mean, do you  _ever_  blush?”

“A gentleman never tells,” he says glibly. She grins again. Really, she’s far too comfortable around him, but Kon doesn’t mind. She never really hurts anyone. Her crimes usually amount to chaos and mischief. Pranking celebrities and politicians, painting the city purple, getting her hands on magical items to wreck havoc, that sort of thing.  She’s mostly harmless, and she doesn’t give a damn about it too.

She sits next to him on the roof, drumming her heels against the side of the skyscraper. “Lex Luthor isn’t going to like me,” she says conversationally.

“What did you do?” He asks immediately.

“TPed his penthouse, filled his car with Superman memorabilia… and stole a few of his private files and gave them to Lois Lane.”

Well, that explains Lois’s good mood earlier. “So what did you need Kara for?”

“Oh we haven’t done the team up yet. We’re going to patrol later though. Baddies beware, it’s Supergirl and the Eggplant Corsair!”

Kon rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You only just caught on, Boy of Muscles?” She squeezes his bicep, smirking.

“Is Robin watching?” Kon asks, looking at her.

She wiggles her eyebrows. “I think you would know the answer to that better than me,” she says. “He’s in town, isn’t he?”

He grins and moves his face close to hers. “You trying to make him jealous?”

“Are  _you_?” She giggles. She lowers her voice. “But who’s he jealous  _of_ , that’s the real question.”

Kon grins at her. She gets to her feet. “Well, Supergirl’s gonna be waiting for me.”

“Need a ride?” He asks, doing his best to imitate her eyebrow wiggle.

She laughs. “Nah, I get around.” She moves her hand slightly.

Kon suddenly feels his ears go very red. Probably his cheeks too.  

“Oh so you  _do_  blush sometimes, huh Ass of Steel?” She grins at him. “See you around!”

* * *

Steph Brown is sixteen and she is watching Disney movies with two of Batman’s sons.

Her life is surreal.

Jason Todd (she’s not supposed to know his name, strictly speaking, but she’s Freaking Amoret and people tell her things) stares blankly at the screen. She sighs, and reaches for the bucket of popcorn she’s stuck in his lap.

Damian snorts. “I cannot believe my father allowed  _him_  to serve by his side.”

Steph knows better than to pay attention to that. “He’s Jason’s father too, Damian.”

Damian snorts. “Ttt. Not really.”

Steph frowns at him. She dislikes it when he gets like this. “Damian, adoption does not make children any more or less valuable to their parents. Blood isn’t everything.”

Damian gets the kicked puppy look on his face that Steph  _never_  should have taught him to utilize and weaponize. “But… my father will still care about me, won’t he? When I meet him?”

Steph feels like the worst person on the planet. “Oh Damian…” She pulls him into a hug. “If he doesn’t care about you, he is the biggest dummy to ever dummy.”

“Steph that doesn’t even—”

“Hush honey. Damian, if your father is as good of a man as you say…” She grabs his face and looks him in the eye. “He will at least give you a chance.”

“A chance for what?” Damian demands, eyes wide.

Steph chooses her words carefully. “To show him who you are. A brave boy with a big heart who can do  _anything_  he chooses to with his life.”  She pulls herself out of the moment. “Now, let’s watch  _The Lion King_!”

…

“Steph, do you believe that Mother will allow me to have a lion cub as a pet?”

“Damian, if she does, I will make you a crown that says  _King of the Puppy Pout_.”

Jason continues to stare at the wall. His hand twitches slightly towards the food, but no one sees.

* * *

Damian al Ghul is eight years old and everything  _hurts_.

“Damian!” He can hear Steph through the smoke. She’s worried. She’s letting it show, too. Mother wouldn’t be happy.

Damian’s shoulder feels like it’s on fire, and he’s pretty sure he has broken bones. He was too close to the bomb. He’s dazed, stumbling as he tries to find Steph. He coughs, trying to expel the smoke from his lungs. There are screams, and everybody’s pushing and shoving, trying to get away. But Damian thinks he hears his mother.

Damian can’t see a thing through the smoke. He closes his eyes, and sees the lights of the explosion dance behind his eyelids. He stumbles and falls, tripping over the rubble that fills the streets.

Arms wrap around him. “Damian!” He hears them say faintly over the ringing in his ears and the roar of the crowd.

“Steph?” He asks. “Is it safe?”

He passes out after that.

Talia al Ghul, holding her son, is livid.

* * *

Talia al Ghul is too young, too old, too young for this.

Stephanie Brown—not Amoret, simply Stephanie—is screaming in pain. Her grip on Talia’s hand is bone-numbing. Talia makes soothing noises and brushes away the tears on the young girl’s face.

Stephanie is only fifteen, Talia thinks, looking at the girl’s face, ravaged by pain. Far too young for this. She feels a twist of guilt. She should have known better than to send her Amoret on a mission with that  _boy_. Stephanie is too young to have to go through this.

She brushes sweat-streaked hair out of the girl’s face.

She knows the girl hates her. Perhaps she deserves it, for refusing to allow Stephanie to keep her child.

But Talia knows, this world is no place for a child.

Stephanie lets out a shriek of pain, and Talia winces slightly, knowing her son is lingering outside the sealed door, upset that Stephanie is in agony.

The bond between Stephanie and her son bothers her, but Talia allows it. Stephanie is the ray of sunshine, the promise of goodness for her son. He needs that, here in her court of shadows and murderers. Stephanie can provide a goal of kindness for her son to strive for, just as her beloved provides a goal of strengths.

Her son. Talia remembers her own birthing very well. She remembers the pain, the secrecy. She remembers Afya shouting at her as she assists.

She remembers the midwife shouting. “He’s a boy! A boy, Lady! And he’s healthy, listen to those lungs!”

She remembers her son in her arms, warm and beautiful and alive.

She remembers her tears. The letter she writes to Bruce, which she will never send, telling him of the birth of their son. (She still keeps it on her person. Once Afya had orders to deliver it to Bruce upon her death, but now she has outlasted Afya, buried in the ground with only a tiny marker to show that there had once been a beautiful, brilliant woman who had carried the name that was carved into stone.)

She remembers giving her son to Afya, who takes him to an orphanage and leaves him on the doorstep, with a name and a piece of jewelry to identify him.

Steph screams again. The midwife offers encouragement. Talia gives nothing but silence, too lost in memories to be anything more than a hand to hold.

Talia al Ghul knows better than anyone that a court like this is not a place to have a baby.

Two years, she stayed away from her son. Afya gave her photographs, reported on his progress.

It tore at Talia constantly. That Damian called another woman “Mama.” That he took his first steps without her there. That someone else rocked him to sleep and got to see him laugh and smile.

Finally, she judged it to be safe. Afya retrieved the boy. “Damian”, the other woman had called him. Talia was forced to admit that it was a better name than Ibn al Xu'ffasch, and kept it.

She hid in a safe place of hers, with only Afya for company. For three weeks, she worked on her son. She played with him and held him and fed him.

Children are forgetful. He called her “mama” quickly, and it warmed her heart.

She presented him to her father. His furor at her hiding it was great, but Talia pointed out that she too, had lived away from the court. He looks at her son, his heir, and forgives her. Talia takes her son to the compound where she grew up in, and starts to build her own court, with the help of Afya. She picks from the court of Ra’s al Ghul, but she makes sure that they are loyal to her above even her father.

Her father loves her, and she loves him, but Lazarus Rage has cost Talia much in the past. She knows better than to trust someone who blindly follows his orders.

Damian does not know this. Neither does Stephanie. And now that Afya has passed into the unknown, only Talia and Ra’s al Ghul do.

Talia wonders, if in a few years she allows Stephanie to fetch her child, Stephanie will accept. But Talia does not make the offer yet. Stephanie has a place in her court, but Talia is not a fool. Stephanie’s skills are growing. Soon she will catch the eye of someone—Cain or Shiva or even her father—and will be demanded as an apprentice.

And Talia will most likely comply or perhaps Amoret will go on her own free will. There are many freedoms that can be offered outside of the court. Talia knows how Stephanie enjoys seeing the world and living. An apprenticeship will offer that.

Stephanie gives a final shriek, and then all noises are drowned out by a wailing.

The child has arrived.

The midwife wraps the baby in cloth and makes a move to hand it to Stephanie. Talia shakes her head. She promised Stephanie a clean break. This is the best.

The woman, her eyes ancient and condemning, passes the infant to Talia. Stephanie whimpers. The midwife starts to tend to her. The woman has her orders. She will only tell Stephanie that the baby is healthy. Not the sex, not the coloring, nothing.

Talia whispers a blessing in Arabic—the same one Afya had given to Damian—to the baby. She leaves the room.

The child is a girl, with tufts of red hair that look almost pink. Talia looks at the child. She wonders if she is simply biased, or if Damian was an unusually handsome baby, because this creature looks ugly. She sighs. The man she hired to take the baby to the United States to give her a better life is waiting for her downstairs.

“Mother?” Damian asks.

“Yes?”

“Is Stephanie okay?”

“Yes, dearest.”

“Is Baby okay?”

She pauses, before recalling that both Stephanie and her son referred to the child as “Baby.”

“Yes. She is healthy.”

“… She?”

“Yes.”

Damian inches closer, face curious. “Mother? May I… may I hold her?” 

Talia knows she should say no. But her son will never be an older sibling, she knows this. Her beloved will never give her another chance for that. It is unfair but the truth.

She hands Damian the child, gently correcting his hands so he is supporting the head.

“What is her name?” He asks.

“She does not have one. Stephanie asked not to be told the gender.”  _Lie_. She feels no guilt.

Damian looks wounded by this. “Mother?” He pauses, biting his lip. She frowns. He should not be nervous. He is Damian al Ghul. She will need to increase his lessons. “Why isn’t she keeping the baby?”

The lie falls from her lips easily. It’s poison in the air, cruel and toxic. “She does not want a baby, my son. Not everyone does.”

There’s pain in her son’s eyes, and the softer part of Talia, the part that Bruce Wayne loves, plays with her son under trees, and still can find goodness and beauty in the world, weeps. The harder part, the part that is her father’s daughter and the merciless killer, is firm. She does not know quite yet why she is lying, does not understand it, but she will know soon.

Damian looks back at the baby. “Carrie,” he says after a moment.

“Damian?”

“Her name. It’s Carrie. It means ‘Free.’”

“Apt,” Talia says. She takes Carrie from her son and takes her away to her new life, free from the court and death.

* * *

Stephanie Brown is sixteen years old, and she’s been  _busy_.

After the explosion during Damian’s day at the market, Talia sent her after the attackers. Steph hunts them down as quickly as she can. Damian’s injured, and she knows he worries when she’s gone on missions. He knows that one day, she won’t come back from one.

She returns to the compound, and he’s waiting for her. He rushes into her arms, checking her for injuries as subtly as he can.

“I’m fine,  _macushla_ ,” she tells him. “Really I am.”

“Ttt. I wasn’t worried.”

She lets him have his lie. She gives him his present—a twisty knife and a postcard from a tourist trap. He beams at her.

“Up for a game of chess?” She asks him. He grins and nods. They go to his room, where the chessboard is already set up. She hides a smile. Damian’s fallen into a routine. It’s precious.

They’ve only made a dozen moves when Steph is called in. She looks at game and sighs. She shrugs off her shroud, leaving it on the chair. “I’ll be back soon,” She tells Damian.

She goes to Talia’s “throne room”. It’s an office really. The door closes behind her.

Talia looks grim. “Stephanie.”

“My Lady,” Steph greets, puzzled. Talia usually only calls her for assignments, and she’s just got back from one.

Talia sighs. “Stephanie, I will be brief. My son has gotten far too attached to you.” Her eyes, critical and perceptive, sweep over Steph. “And you to him.”

“My Lady?”

“You will no longer be serving as my son’s guard.” Talia pauses. “Or at my court at all.”

Steph’s hands go to her knives. “My Lady?” There’s fear in her voice.

“In gratitude for my son’s life, I will spare you,” Talia says coldly. “However, Damian will be told you are dead. You will not inform him otherwise, or your life will be forfeit. You will not have contact with any member of my court, or that of my father. You will not inform anyone of Damian’s existence. You will not  _speak_  of my son to anyone.” Talia got to her feet.

Steph goes cold. Hatred fills her. “Fine,” She spits, her tone acidic. “I’ll go. But only because I don’t want him hurt. And choosing,” She doesn’t elaborate, but from Talia’s frigid glare, the woman knows exactly what Steph is implying, “Will hurt him.” Talia could kill her, she’s certain of this. But they both know that Damian would fight to defend Steph. Maybe even against his own mother. Steph turns away. “But,” She says quietly, “If you make him chose between yourself and Batman? If he picks Batman, I’ll go to him. He’ll need me.”

“He won’t,” Talia says. She’s confident. She believes this. Steph pities her.

“You sound so sure,” Steph says. “I wouldn’t be.”

She leaves, with those as her final words. She leaves with the clothes on her back, her knives, and her Amoret mask. She takes nothing else with her, but goes to Rome and collects her supplies.

She cuts her hair and buys a plane ticket. She designs a new costume and makes plans.

She no longer has to kill.

And despite her heavy heart, she knows she is finally free.

* * *

Timothy Drake is seventeen years old, and there’s a group of assassins out to kill him.

Well, Robin.

The Corsair tugs him forward, dragging him away from the car that he’d been unceremoniously shoved in by Kon and Cassie. Apparently his teammates had come to the conclusion that he is safer with the Corsair than with them, while they hunt down the assassins.

Tim seethes. He has been unable to escape the blonde.  After his first escape attempt, she stole his utility belt, with the majority of his useful tools. Right now she has it clipped around her own waist.

The Corsair drags him into an apartment building, where she appears to have an apartment on the top floor. Tim notes the room number and the location. He’ll be able to do some digging once all this is over. Maybe he can learn more about the Corsair.

She locks the door, her three deadbolts, and slides the safety lock on for good measure. She seems to relax slightly after that. “Welcome to the Safe House, Boy Wonder,” she says, gesturing with her arms.

The apartment is small but well furnished. To his right is a kitchenette, with a fridge, a stove and a dishwasher. He takes a peak in the cupboards, which are stocked with a wide variety of food. The kitchenette has a large opening over the counter that looks out into the living room.

The living room is made up of a large glass dining table, a smaller glass coffee table, a white leather couch, a white leather armchair, a large television, and bookcases. The far wall, visible from the kitchenette, is made up of a sliding glass door that opens to a balcony.

He leaves the kitchenette, glancing into the hallway to his left. It leads into a bathroom, but turns for a large bedroom.

There’s only one bed. Tim tries not to blush. Judging from the Corsair’s giggling, he fails.

“The couch is a pullout,” she tells him. “Don’t worry about your innocence, Boy Virgin.”

He blushes again. “I wasn’t…”

She laughs. Tim ignores her, turning his attention to the bookshelves. They’re filled to the brim with a strange combination of classics (in multiple languages—he hadn’t realized the Corsair was a polyglot) and cheap dime-novels. There are DVDs mixed in as well. He can’t tell if there’s a system. Probably not, he decides, knowing the Corsair.

She disappears into the bathroom. Tim continues his search of the apartment. He finds a variety of security systems, a surprising amount of weapons (mostly knives, although he finds a short-sword too), and, unusually, a waffle iron.

She emerges from the bathroom as he’s staring at the waffle iron. “Oh, you found it! Great! I was worried you wouldn’t be able to try my famous waffles tomorrow morning!” She takes it from him, and Tim nearly doubles over as he realizes she isn’t wearing gloves anymore.

She laughs at him. She’s wearing pajama shorts and a purple tank-top. There’s a Batgirl symbol on it, which is just so odd that Tim can’t even process it. She’s not wearing a mask. Her eyes are bright blue, twinkling as she smiles at him.

“Your… your mask,” He says dumbly.

“I  _hate_  wearing it around the apartment,” she says lightly, ignoring that she’s basically handed Tim her history on a platter. Fingerprints, her face, plus his eidic memory… Tim could know everything about her the minute he left this place. “Call me Steph,” she adds.

Steph. It’s… fitting. She goes to the kitchen, ignoring Tim’s confusion. “You eaten?”

“Ah, not really,” he says. Corsair… Steph, that is, always knows when he’s lying. She and Kon have that in common.

“Up for popcorn, or do you want something a bit more foody?” She asks. He hears her open the cupboard and throw something in the microwave.

“Popcorn’s fine,” he says. Steph starts whistling as the microwave does its job.

Tim turns on the TV to distract himself. It turns onto the news. Tim freezes.

There’s been an explosion in the city. The Titans had been spotted on scene.

Tim falls back onto the couch.

He’s the only one on the team who can disarm a bomb.

The anchor is starting to name casualties. Tim feels numb. He buries his face in his hands.

Suddenly, Steph is there, and the television’s off. “Tim,” she says. “ _Tim_.” What she’s saying sinks through and he looks up suddenly, surprised by the use of his real name. “Tim, none of this is your fault.  _That wasn’t your fault_.”

“I should’ve—”

“Shh.” She places a finger on his lips. “Timothy Drake, listen to me. This is not your fault. At all. Nunca. Nada. Zilch. The  _only_  person who is blaming you is your stupid self, and if you insist on continuing to be stupid, you will get no popcorn.” Her voice is gentle, her eyes are kind. 

He bites his lip. “My name,” he says finally. “How did you—”

“Backstory,” she says. “Mine’s a doozy.”

Tim wants to ask. But she’s looking at him in a way that says he probably shouldn’t. Instead, he slowly moves his hand to her leg. It rests on her knee.

She smiles at him softly. Then, slowly, as if afraid he’ll run away, she leans in and presses her lips against his.

He leans in, and kisses her back.

It’s awkward and silly and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but she’s patient and directs him.

They go to sleep on the couch together, arms wrapped around each other.

Tim wakes the next morning to the smell of waffles and coffee. Steph’s hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and is wearing a large fluffy purple robe over her tank top and pajama shorts.

“Morning!” She sings. She deposits the plateful of waffles in front of him. He pokes at it blearily.

She laughs at him and plops a mug of coffee down as well, which he sets about draining.

Tim’s halfway through his waffles, and his second cup of coffee, when Kon walks in. “Hey Rob, coast is clear! Bad guys all locked up!”

Kon comes to a halt. He looks at Steph. He looks at Tim, maskless with the worst case of bedhead possible. He smirks. “So… you two have fun last night?”

“Don’t you know it!” Steph smirks back. Their eyebrows shoot up in unison, then they somehow manage to wiggle them in sync. She blows Tim a kiss. “See you around, handsome!”  She walks right past Kon out the door. Tim is almost certain she pinched Kon’s butt. He doesn’t really know what to make of that.

And if he doesn’t run her prints or her face… and if he doesn’t mention to anyone that her name has materialized in his contacts list on his phone… that’s really no one’s business but his.

* * *

Damian al Ghul is eight years old and his world is falling apart.

He sits on his mother’s lap, and watches the tape playing in front of him again.

He watches as Amoret is attacked by guards he does not recognize. He watches her fight back. He watches a sword go into her stomach, another into her chest.

“She was a weakness, my son,” Mother whispers in his ear. “And the only weakness allowed is loyalty to your blood.”

 _I don’t care!_  He wants to scream. He wants to shout on the top of his lungs Steph’s lessons about blood not mattering, but love. He wants to yell and cry and sob and take vengeance for Steph.

She is dead. He has no one now.

No one but Mother.

Later, he will scream and shout and cry when no one can see him. He will break things and hit people and beat the walls with his fists until they bleed. He will rescue her few belongings from her room, and use most of them, including her silken shroud, to build a memorial pyre for her. He will go to bed crying, clutching his stuffed robin. He won’t eat waffles for a year. He will hate Steph’s replacement with a passion, making the man’s life a living hell using all the skills that Steph has taught him.

Later, he will go to a man with kind eyes and dark hair and ask to be his Robin, against the wishes of his mother. He will ask to be part of a family that is bond together with love, not blood.

But that is all later.

For now, Damian sits on his mother’s lap and does not cry as he watches Stephanie Brown die again.

* * *

“Hey Jay!” The Red Hood looks up to see a familiar face slip through the window of his Gotham apartment.

“Hey Blondie,” He replies, setting down his book. “I thought you didn’t come to Gotham.”

“Times have changed,” She says. There’s a pinched, worried look to her face that sets Jason on edge. He’s a lot better now, thanks to Steph and her surprisingly effective anger management courses, as well as work with his therapist, but he’s not completely better. He still avoids his family, although he’s started emailing Barbara and hanging out with the new Batgirl. He only goes out on good days. If Steph’s worried…

“What’s up?” He asks.

She sits down next to him. “Jay… the new Robin.”

“What about him?”

She looks at him, blue eyes wide and hopeful. “Is his name… is he Damian?”

“How’d you…”

Her eyes light up like a freaking Christmas tree. She nearly tackles him in a hug. “Thank you Jay! Thank you!”

“For what—?” She’s out the window before he can finish his question.

Jason stares after her. He then reaches for his laptop and sends Barbara an email. She might want to know this.

* * *

Damian is ten years old and he’s  _Robin_.

He pulls the cape over his head. He wonders if this was how Steph felt, when she would go on missions. Probably not. Steph hated her missions. She never said so, and Damian hadn’t noticed at the time, but now it’s obvious to him. Steph hated killing.

It makes Damian even more determined to uphold his promise to Grayson. He wants Steph to be proud of him.

He reaches under his bed. Damian did not bring many things with him when he joined his father’s side. However, he managed to bring some things.

He pulls out the toy robin she’d given him so long ago and hugs it to his chest. Grayson is in the Cave. There’s the slight danger of Pennyworth, but Damian is reasonably confident that the elderly butler won’t discover. And if he does discover, Damian is completely certain that the man wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Damian can live with that.

He puts it away, leaving it to rest on top of Stephanie’s short-sword and the few photographs he possesses. They’re mostly postcards from her travels, but a few have her in them. One even has him.

He goes to the Batcave, where Grayson is waiting for him.

Grayson grins, a disgrace to the uniform he’s wearing, but Damian doesn’t mention it. “Ready?”

“Ttt. Obviously,” Damian scoffs. Grayson makes him uncomfortable. He reminds Damian of Steph. Not in the way they fight—Grayson is too acrobatic to truly be compared to anyone else—but in how they  _are_. The smiles, the hugs, the  _talking_. Damian has become unaccustomed to constant chatter in Steph’s absence. It’s… pleasant, to have it again.

He wonders if Grayson and Steph would have gotten along. He doubts it. Grayson does not seem to be too fond of assassins, despite his surprising… kindness towards Damian.

 _Weakness_  the part that his mother taught whispers.

 _Kindness_. This is the part that Steph nurtured.  _Goodness._

Damian gets into the Batmobile beside Grayson.

He looked her up once, using Oracle’s network. He buried her among his searches for information about his tutors, but he looked her up. The file on Amoret was pitiful. Her kill count was far lower than Damian knew it to be, and the only note apart from an (underestimated) skill-set was,  _The Silent Knife_.

Damian remembers how Steph’s mask stopped her from talking completely. He wondered if his mother had done that on purpose.

He patrols with Grayson throughout Gotham. He searches through it, trying to see what his father saw. He tries to see what Father, Grayson, Todd, and even Drake saw in the city that lead them to sacrifice so much to try to save it, when his Grandfather and Mother saw it beyond hope.

He fights for Gotham, yes, but for his father, not for the city herself. It’s almost blasphemous, he feels, but he hasn’t found it worth saving yet. He will, he’s sure of it. He has to.

He notices someone following them as he runs over Crime Alley. He signals to Grayson. Grayson looks confused. He hasn’t noticed. Damian frowns. Grayson is not usually this bad at spotting tails.

Damian blends into the shadows, and runs towards their pursuer. When he gets to the place that he spotted them, there was nothing there.

Except a familiar mask.

Damian’s heart nearly stopped. He picked it up with trembling hands. The mask is white with gold edging around the eyes and rim. The raised lips are pulled into a serene smile and painted the same gold. The eyes are blank, but Damian can see in his mind’s eye the pair of smiling blue ones that should be behind it.

The mask is supposed to be gone.

There’s a twirl of purple around the corner, in the corner of his eye. He charges forward, after whoever it is, tucking the mask into his belt.

He chases the figure across the rooftops of Gotham. He can’t see very well, but he’s pretty sure that they’re wearing purple. Rage flashes across his mind. How  _dare they_.

The figure comes to a stop in an alleyway that’s lit by a single streetlight. She—it’s definitively a she, Damian’s sure of it—turns to face him.

He skids to a halt. Her hair is golden and short. She holds familiar knives in ungloved hands. Her eyes, unmasked, are a twinkling dark blue.

She smiles at him. “Damian.”

He throws himself forward, barreling into her arms. She drops her knives and clings to him, stroking his hair and whispering words. He hears his name over and over again, and  _I’m sorry I’m so sorry_. She’s crying, and Damian realizes with horror that he is too.

But she’s  _here_  and Damian buries his face in the fabric of her purple cape, hoping she doesn’t notice. “Mother told me you were dead,” he says, voice muffled by the cloak and his tears.

She strokes his hair. “I know, I know… she made me leave. She said I was a weakness that you couldn’t afford to have.”

Damian let out a choked sob and clutches her cape tightly. “Why didn’t you  _tell_  me?” He demands, raising his face.

“She would’ve killed me honey,” She said, pressing her hand against his cheek. “And then you would’ve been so upset. I couldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t drive you away from your mother…”

“But now?” He’s hopeful, looking at her. She’s almost exactly as he remembered, albeit with shorter hair.

“I’ll stay if you want me to,” she says softly. “I’m not going anywhere,  _macushla_.”

He sobs again at the familiar nickname and throws himself back into her arms. Her arms wrap around him.

“Robin?” Grayson’s voice makes him tense. He pulls away from her, looking at Grayson.

“Ah, so you’re Batman,” Steph’s slipped her mask back on her face. Not the Amoret mask, a different one. But it hides the fact that she’s been crying all the same. Damian doesn’t have that advantage.

Grayson looks furious. Damian twitches. “Who are you?” Grayson demands, and for once he almost sounds like Father.

Steph bows, holding out the edges of her cape. She’s smiling, it’s audible in her voice. “I’m the Eggplant Corsair.”

Damian blinks at the bizarre name. Grayson doesn’t. He’s heard of her?

“The Red Hood mentioned you were in town,” Grayson’s voice is gravel. He’s going to be complaining about it for hours.

“Aww, Jay squealed on me?” She’s  _pouting_ , crossing her arms theatrically. “I thought we were better friends than that.”

“You’re  _friends_ with  _Todd_?” Damian can’t help but ask.

“I’m friends with everybody, honey. Just ask Wonder Girl.”

“ _Steph_?” Damian’s nose wrinkles.  _Drake_.

There’s a beat, and then Damian realizes that  _Drake_  knows  _Steph’s name_.

“Hey you!” Steph chirps. “Oooh new outfit. Very nice. Very… Doctor Midnight.”

Drake throws his hands into the air. “ _Everybody_  says that.”

“Probably ‘cause it’s true, Teen Wonder. Hey, what’s the new name?”

“Red Robin,” Drake grits out.

Steph  _beams_. “You’re joining team color noun?”

Drake groans. Apparently that means something to him.

“You  _know_  him?” Damian demands of Steph.

“ _You_ know  _her_?” Drake asks Damian, incredulous.

“Timmy’s my nemesis Dami,” She tells him matter-of-factly. “I mentioned backstory?” She says to Drake. “Being Dami’s bodyguard slash babysitter was part of it.”

Grayson makes an unusual noise at this.

“ _He’s_  your nemesis?” Damian can’t believe that Steph would bother herself with someone so… Drakish.

“You  _babysat_ him?”

“Why wouldn’t he be? He’s fun,” She says to Damian. She ignores Drake, which is an improvement.

“He’s…  _Drake_. He’s unworthy!”

Drake protests that. Steph laughs, ruffling his hair. “You said that about Jason too.”

Damian growls. He doesn’t like being reminded of her lessons from that time.

Steph kneels down and kisses him on the cheek. “Now, I’ll let you get back to your patrol. Come visit me later though. Timmy has my address.”

“I do?”

“He does?”

“You do now,” She says, holding out a cellphone. “Goodbye!” She fades into the night.

Grayson places a gauntleted hand on Damian’s shoulder. “We’ll have to talk about this,” He says.

He smiles.

Damian Wayne is ten years old. And he is  _happy_.

 

_The Beginning_


End file.
